Lindsay Graham-cracker

you got your white ass honkey

back against the wall.

 

Like pulling the petals off a

child’s daisy

one minute you love Trump

the next you dump 

him. Out of

what crayon does

this peculiarity 

out of the

human hue range

blow?

 

From your 

bent brain

broken

as a rain drop

dying into

a puddle?

 

Of course you acquitted Trump,

what else would a heap

of dumb

 

do?

 

Then

two days later

with this “verdict”

still reeking  

with the stench

of a stick

plunged by 

a chimpanzee

into a dung 

hole,

 

you had the nerve to say,

“I’m going down to Florida

to play some golf

with Donald,” 

 

adding as you left

the elevator,

 

“Lara Trump, keep your eye on her,

she’s the future of the Republican Party”?

 

Of course there’s no big balloons

no wine or beer

no dancing bears where

the only rhythm common to this group

is the thump of

the schedule of investments

that roll itself

into dividends. 

 

Who the hell is Lara

Trump

anyway?

 

She’s no niece

Mary, of course,

the farthest on

that family’s apexed point

toward

decency

pivoting

in the

direction of someone 

who might actually

do some good 

 

like Frost’s horse in the woods at night

 

in a snow that falls

down rays of

of starlight

translucently

illuminating

the way

toward inwardness

and

virtue. 

 

Anyway, Graham cracker,

your creepy carapace 

your W.C. Fields

puffy drunk face

whose eyes

don’t search for wisdom

but only the safe steps of self

preservation 

 

down which you

walk incognito

your murky

shame

afraid only

of forgiveness.